House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“You’re making that up?”

She smiled.

“Good heavens,” he said. He was uncertain what he should say next, even more uncomfortable about broaching the question that had been with him since Arnold Beckman’s visit. The fireplace smelled of soot and the coldness in the stone. “I was going to ask you something rather personal.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s of a delicate nature.”

“Mr. Holland, would you please stop acting like this?”

“Let me get a fire started.”

“I’m going to leave.”

“Arnold Beckman came by in his motorcar and introduced himself. He said something about you and him that was a little more than I could study on, if you follow me.”

“No, I don’t follow you at all.”

“He said y’all were intimate.”

His face burned in the silence.

“Why would that bother you?”

“Because I respect you. Because you saved my life. You were a friend to my son. The thought of that man with you makes my stomach turn.”

“It didn’t happen.”

“I knew it didn’t. I knew you wouldn’t allow that. Knew it all along,” he said, patting his knees. “Yes, ma’am, I surely did.”

“My second purpose in coming here has to do with your welfare,” she said. “Before you burned the hearse, did you take something out of it?”

“A few coins and currency, as I recall. Some candlesticks that turned out to be brass.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe a papist artifact came into my possession. That’s the least of my troubles.”

“What other troubles do you have?” she asked.

“The blood of innocent people on my hands. Sometimes I feel as if I’m living in a dream. I never drew down on a man who didn’t draw on me first. Then I went down to Mexico and killed women and children and old people on a train loaded with Villa’s soldiers. I’d give anything in the world if I could draw a big ‘X’ through that terrible day in my life.”

He didn’t want to look at her eyes. But he did. They were moist, the pity in them unmistakable.

“Miss Beatrice, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t look at me like that.”

“Has Beckman sent people to your house?” she said.

“A couple of them. They got greedy. He put them in mail sacks and dumped them in the river, still alive, with their hands bound behind them. He did some other things to them that are better not talked about.”

“Where’s the cup?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say I had a cup. I said I had an artifact. It was probably stolen from a chapel in a ranch the revolutionists occupied.”

“Beckman won’t rest until he gets it back.”

“Is it the gold or the jewels? Why does Beckman want it so bad? He’s probably one of the richest men in the state.”